Chapter 19: THE COLLECTOR
The tuxedo fit like a second skin.
I adjusted my cufflinks in the bathroom mirror of the Christie's venue, watching James Thornton stare back at me. Same face as Aron Dark, same face as the dead man Marcus Webb, but the bearing was different. Shoulders back. Chin slightly elevated. The particular confidence of someone who'd never wondered where his next meal was coming from.
[IDENTITY STATUS: JAMES THORNTON]
[AUTHENTICITY RATING: 89%]
[SOCIAL MODIFIERS: +15% ART WORLD CREDIBILITY]
The registration desk had accepted my credentials without hesitation. Paddle number forty-seven now resided in my inside pocket, a plastic ticket to a world of seven-figure transactions and carefully cultivated taste.
Christie's evening auction occupied the grand salon at Rockefeller Center—chandeliers, champagne, the hushed reverence of people who worshipped beautiful things. I moved through the crowd with the measured pace of someone who belonged, cataloguing faces, building mental maps of the social terrain.
Three weeks since I'd created this identity. Three weeks of careful preparation, building the paper trail, establishing the legend. Tonight was the first real test.
"Champagne, sir?"
I took a glass from the passing waiter, held it without drinking. Props mattered in performances like this. The way you held your drink said more than most conversations.
The auction catalog listed forty-three lots—Impressionists, modern works, a few Old Masters that would make museums weep with longing. I'd memorized the important pieces, the ones that would attract serious collectors rather than trophy hunters.
Lot seventeen: a small Monet sketch, study for a larger work that hung in the Musée d'Orsay. Estimated value seventy to ninety thousand. The kind of piece a discerning collector might pursue—expensive enough to signal serious intent, modest enough not to seem desperate.
I worked the room methodically. Introduced myself to dealers, made small talk with collectors, dropped references to auctions I'd "attended" in London and Geneva. The system-generated backstory held up under casual scrutiny—educated comments about provenance, informed opinions on market trends.
[SOCIAL INTEGRATION: SUCCESSFUL]
[NOTE: 3 ART WORLD CONTACTS ACQUIRED]
Then I spotted him across the room.
Not Marcus Hartley—he was still awaiting trial, his empire temporarily headless. But the man talking to the Japanese collector wore the same predatory confidence I remembered from the gallery opening. Tall, silver-haired, the calculated elegance of someone who'd learned to weaponize charm.
Gerard Vance. I'd seen his name in the records I'd photographed from Holt's safe. Marcus Hartley's silent partner, the man who handled "special acquisitions" while Hartley played the legitimate front. With Hartley facing charges, Vance had apparently stepped into the spotlight.
[MARK ANALYSIS: GERARD VANCE]
[OCCUPATION: ART DEALER / CRIMINAL NETWORK OPERATOR]
[EMOTIONAL STATE: CONFIDENT | CALCULATING]
[THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE]
The Japanese collector bowed and departed. Vance stood alone for a moment, surveying the room with the eyes of a predator assessing hunting grounds.
I positioned myself near lot twenty-three—a minor Caravaggio study that Vance's gallery was selling. The catalog listed provenance back to 1847, but something about the documentation felt wrong.
[APPRAISAL: CARAVAGGIO STUDY — LOT 23]
[AUTHENTICATION: QUESTIONABLE]
[NOTE: PIGMENT COMPOSITION INCONSISTENT WITH PERIOD]
Forgery. Well-executed, probably worth a fraction of its estimate to anyone who knew what to look for.
"Beautiful piece," Vance's voice came from my left. "The chiaroscuro technique is particularly remarkable."
I turned, letting James Thornton's appreciation show. "Caravaggio's influence on later artists is often underestimated. The way he used darkness as a compositional element rather than mere absence of light."
Vance's assessment sharpened. Most buyers talked about value, not technique. Thornton was distinguishing himself.
"You have good taste, Mr...?"
"Thornton. James Thornton." I offered my hand. "And I believe good taste finds good company."
His handshake was firm, professionally warm. "Gerard Vance. I represent the gallery that's consigning this piece."
"Hartley Gallery, if I'm not mistaken." I kept my expression neutral. "I was sorry to hear about the legal difficulties."
A flicker in Vance's eyes—caution, then calculation. "An unfortunate misunderstanding. Marcus remains confident in a favorable resolution. In the meantime, the gallery continues to serve our clients."
"I'm glad to hear it." Thornton's smile carried just the right mixture of sympathy and self-interest. "I've heard good things about your discretion."
The magic word. Vance's posture shifted subtly—still guarded, but interested now.
"Discretion is... something we specialize in. Are you a collector, Mr. Thornton?"
"Among other things." I gestured vaguely toward the auction hall. "My family's collection is modest by some standards, but I'm always interested in expanding. Particularly with pieces that might not make it to public auction."
The hook was set. I could see Vance weighing options, calculating risk against potential reward.
"Perhaps you'd be interested in visiting the gallery sometime. We have... inventory that doesn't appear in catalogs."
"I'd like that very much."
He produced a card—personal number, not the gallery's main line. Access granted.
The auction began at seven. I found a seat near the middle of the room, close enough to bid convincingly, far enough back to observe the other players.
Lot seventeen came up faster than expected. The Monet sketch—delicate lines, the suggestion of water and light that would become one of his most famous works.
"Opening bid at forty-five thousand," the auctioneer announced. "Do I have forty-five?"
I raised my paddle before I could stop myself. Not for cover—genuinely wanting it. The sketch represented everything I'd learned to appreciate in this strange second life: beauty for its own sake, the captured moment of an artist's vision.
"Forty-five thousand to paddle forty-seven. Do I have fifty?"
Paddles rose around the room. Fifty. Fifty-five. Sixty.
I kept bidding, watching the price climb past seventy thousand. My budget—Thornton's budget—would stretch to eighty at most. Anything beyond that would require explanations I couldn't provide.
"Seventy-five thousand. Do I have eighty?"
A paddle across the room. Some collector with deeper pockets and perhaps less appreciation for what he was buying.
I lowered my paddle. The Monet went for eighty-seven thousand to a man who was already checking his phone before the hammer fell.
Disappointment and relief mixed in equal measure. I'd wanted the sketch. But James Thornton's cover required careful financial management, not impulsive purchases that might draw scrutiny.
Small pleasures, I reminded myself. Small sacrifices.
The auction ended past ten. I lingered afterward, working the post-sale crowd, cementing the contacts I'd made earlier. Vance found me near the exit.
"Mr. Thornton. A pleasure meeting you tonight."
"The pleasure was mine." I accepted his card properly now, tucking it into my pocket with the careful attention it deserved. "I'll call next week about that gallery visit."
"Please do." His smile carried professional warmth and professional calculation in equal measure. "I think we might have pieces that suit your... particular interests."
He disappeared into the crowd. I watched him go, filing away observations, building the profile.
Vance was smart. Perhaps smarter than Marcus Hartley had been. The network was still operating, still moving stolen art and forgeries through legitimate channels. And now I had access.
[INFILTRATION: STAGE 1 COMPLETE]
[+150 EXP]
The card in my pocket weighed almost nothing. But it represented weeks of preparation, thousands in system-generated documentation, the careful construction of a person who didn't exist.
One mask talking to another.
The difference: I knew both of them.
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